There’s a log in a bog in a fog
And a dog on the log in the bog
And a frog in the bog
That’s agog at the dog
On the log in the bog in the fog
The dog was sick
the cat was sad
the budgie wouldn’t talk …
The chook was dead
the cocky said
they didn’t like New York.
It’s a local but physical law,
That in England, if one is outdoor,
And an object is downed,
It will never hit ground,
But is certain to land on the floor.
Talking Derry Girls, masters of tech,
Going non-instrumental a sec,
Bring a Derry lad’s voice
To their anthem of choice,
With the tea level touching his neck.
The sedentary sirens of yearning
Were deadly in Derry, we’re learning;
Their cover was blown,
And the the Foyle would be known
As the River of Never Returning.
Little Acorns, the story untold,
The shop that came out in the cold;
A brown paper drop
And a bus at the stop …
It’s a genre that never gets old.
The secrets of Ma Mary Quinn,
As revealed by the wee Tara Lynne;
It’s a glamorous gig,
With the jumpers, the wig,
And a bowl of contention within.
The podcasting Derry Girls, witty,
Take a Derry Girls tour of the city
With Charlene, but a wain …
While recording the rain,
They intrepidly talk in committee.
DerryLama, made blind as a sprog,
Leaves the podcasting trio agog,
For they sound, in his sight,
Rather beige; that’s in spite
Of their glamour and eau de wet dog.
One’s living the life of a swell;
For the others, it’s just a hotel.
They visit, in plural,
The Derry Girls mural,
And do some annoying as well.
The charming and chattable three,
Erin’s Diary, and Lisa McGee;
A Panto, poor Dopey
All pale and ropy,
And raging up there was a tree.
Is it belly or stomach? Much noise.
Maybe girls are more funny than boys …
The Derry Girls three
Welcome Lisa McGee
With their usual presence and poise.
The future looked suddenly bright,
The chosen were packing in tight,
But Jeanie’s big scoop
Was in closing the loop
On the man who appeared in the night.
The bell for a telly has tolled,
A Catholic budgie is rolled;
Portnoo to Portnude
Is debatably rude,
And you’d surely be feeling the cold.
The truth’s never totally said,
But death, you can take it as read:
Logistics with meaning
And none of that keening,
You’ll only be waking the dead.
Lady Di and the Pope are a pair,
Which is conflict enough, to be fair;
But far more confusing
Is Donna’s wee newsing,
And look at the shape of that bear!
Wee statues with frills in their blouses
Are desperately clinging to houses;
And Gabriel Byrne
Is a point of concern,
With no arse in the back of his trousers.
On holy shops, cupboards and crumbs
And people with hymns in their hums;
The blackboards, you’ll see ‘em
In Ulster Museum …
One’s finished; the other becomes.
In Derry, they’re often a pair,
The laughter, pursued by despair;
A deeply emotional,
Any but notional
Podcast, from three who were there.
The gleam in a shouty man’s eye,
The cake that’s forbidden to fly,
Sectarian tray bake,
And doilies at daybreak …
A whale that’s retired to Skye.
His doorway besmirched by unnamed,
The Voice of Sinn Fein is reframed;
The story of Jeanie
In France as a tweenie
(Eventually, when she was claimed).
One’s never, no never, up late,
One’s ironing every date …
The Bishop is brittle
In wee Ballinspittle,
And hark the informer dog’s fate.
Profane and religious offences,
And thoroughfares nursing pretences;
The standards are failing.
No bums on the railing,
And no filling up of your senses.
Three Derry insiders transcend
Pulp Fiction and Derry - the blend,
Then showcase Pauline
As a Little Miss Keen,
Though she wasn’t, it seems, in the end.
Limericks are something I’ve always enjoyed. A well-crafted limerick is completely at home within itself. Short, rhythmic, rhyming, and preferably funny. A standalone giggle.
The most famous limerick is probably this one:
There was a young lady of Riga,
Who smiled as she rode on a tiger;
They returned from the ride
With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the tiger.
Edward Lear made limericks popular. But as the example below reveals, he didn’t really understand how they work:
There was an Old Person of Buda,
Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder,
Till at last with a hammer they silenced his clamor,
By smashing that Person of Buda.
A.A. Milne, on the other hand, didn’t write limericks, but he did understand the need for a punchline. I’m quoting The Hums of Pooh below from memory, so bear with me. No pun intended.
It’s a very funny thing that if bears were bees,
They’d build their nests at the bottom of trees.
And that being so (if the bees were bears),
I shouldn’t have to climb up all these stairs.
This hum and the Lady of Riga are two of my favourite poems ever :)
PS: Or did A.A. Milne write any limericks? I must find out.